Ralph the Wonder Llama

Having cultivated the art of doing very little for two and a half weeks, it was time for a trip. I decided to visit the 14th-16th Century ruins of Hampi, the capital of the old Hindu empire of Prince Harihararaya. The site is a major attraction in this part of the world and was busy with both local and foreign visitors, the more so as I arrived just after the conclusion of a two-day festival which drew 25,000 visitors to this small – and, it turns out, less easy to get to than it ought to be – town.

In fact, “town” is almost overstating the case. Hampi consists of little more than a central main bazaar of a few blocks plus a main street that is a paragon of tat, plus an extended tail either side of restaurants and guest houses along the river. In its 16th Century heyday, half a million people lived here. Which must have made getting a chai of a morning a bit of a mare.

Anyway, Hampi can be reached in a number of ways, but my recommendation would be to go by train. I went by bus, amongst other things, and it managed to take 15.5 hours each way, for various reasons with which I shall bore you anon. Think “overnight express private bus” and you might conjure an image of air conditioned comfort, deeply padded lie-flat recliners, privacy screens and a silky smooth ride. Now forget all that and remember where you are. Instead think more along the lines of a cross between a cut-up version of the interior of a third class sleeper car from Indian Railways and a knackered-up, tin-plate box on wheels that looks like it’s been lashed together out of very second hand meccano by a gang of one-armed blind maniacs. Add a blown exhaust. Add thirty or so passengers in various states of disrepair. Add 25-35 degrees of heat depending on time of day. Add comedy clown spring suspension. That’s it. Very good. Now drive the whole thing overnight for 12 (scheduled) hours over some of the finest road-ridden potholes this side of Edinburgh, and you’re as good as there.

Except of course we weren’t. We awoke (well, failed to sleep in the light of a new day…) on the morning of the 30th January to find ourselves 30km out of Hampi after twelve hours’ driving, going absolutely nowhere. Up ahead, a four-bus crash had brought everything for miles to a halt. It was 10:00. It was getting warm. It didn’t take too long to conclude that we would spend the rest of the day here, and possibly die, if nothing was done. As sheep figuring out the whole cattle-grid thing, the bus was deserted within a matter of minutes of someone figuring out that there was a back road down which rickshaws could navigate. Rs900 split three ways, and hour and a half, adding a significant percentage in time and cost to the journey, but at least we’d get there. So that’s what we did.

As we drove through the back roads and villages that marked the long way round to Hampi, we learned (from Ben from South West London) that this area had another claim to fame as the backdrop to the Flintstones film. It was easy to see why. Nowhere else have I seen a landscape like it. Huge (I mean house-sized and upwards) boulders scattered in great heaps littered the countryside, of such dimensions that one doubted one’s own eyes. They are so incongruously large that they look to have been designed to a similar spec as used by Spinal Tap for their interpretation of Stonehenge. Only in reverse. Sort of thing. You know what I mean. Like, none more big.

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Specifically, this one:

reached after a long (about 24 hours all told) but in the end fairly straightforward trip, made that little bit more bearable by being randomly upgraded to business class for the London-Mumbai leg. Champagne before take-off, proper food, impeccable service and one’s own private cubicle with lie-flat bed. A very pleasant way to begin things. Thank you British Airways.
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It’s about an hour and a half before I step out of the door and start the long trek to Agonda Beach via Heathrow, Mumbai and Goa. It’s safe to say I’m scared out of my tiny little mind a little nervous. But I have good friends and a bed waiting for me at the other end, so all that remains is to get there.

Those of you that know me know that what I need right now is a good break, a chance to relax properly away from here and everything that’s gone on recently. I should say a big thank you to all those lovely people who’ve helped keep me together in body and soul over the past while – you know who you are. I hope that this trip will provide me with a decent chance at recuperation and to take a couple of steps forward. I will, at least, get away from all this damned snow.

I’ll be in touch. But for now, my pretties, I must fly

…anyone keeping up with this? I’d hate you all to become as lazy as me.

Actually, that’s not strictly true – considering I’m supposed to be resting in this immediate post-work period, I’ve been pretty busy. It’s only the past few days I’ve been able to sit down and do not much, using as my excuse the First Test in South Africa, the first time I’ve been able to watch the majority of a game for ages. Who knew an England batting collapse and dramatic last-over draw could be so therapeutic?

Anyway, since I am currently waiting for a parcel to be delivered (which will, naturally, turn up sometime between four and six while I’m out being shrunk), I might as well use the time to bring you up to speed. Edited highlights only, mind, cos I carnt really be arsed to be honest. Sorry.

So, after finishing work on 27 November I met up with some very old and dear friends of mine in the Guildford Arms, the prelude to a weekend of good company and celebration of my first retirement (regrettably not the last, since I’m not nearly wealthy enough, but for now at least). We then all headed to the Gurkha Brigade for dinner, where I have in recent times become rather popular, possibly on account of taking all my friends there at some stage or another. Trouble is, I’ve now run out of friends, so should probably take advantage of the offer of accommodation in Pokhara in Nepal sooner than later. On the Saturday we had a little party which was good fun, and Jan and Dave bought me an enormous cake, which was, and in fact still is, very nice:

Lovely people. And Steve bought me a pipe and slippers. Git.

We (Steve, Jean, Gerry, Claire and I) indulged in a spot of home-town tourism over the weekend, taking in the castle on Saturday (free courtesy of St Andrew) and Mary King’s Close on Monday (though Claire had left on the Sunday afternoon), two things I’d never before seen in eight-and-a-half years here. Right, now I can safely leave…

All in all, a good weekend, if bloody freezing.
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That Philip Pullman’s a clever chap isn’t he? It’s nice to see that people don’t just pull these names out of thin air.

Anyway. What am I blithering on about now? Well, since it’s been so long I thought I’d say hello, but I’m far too tired to bring you up to date just now. Some stuff has happened in the past three weeks, but nothing that can’t wait to tell. I’m tired because I’ve spent six hours cleaning my flat, and only the kitchen and bathroom are done. Like Lyra, my life is currently dominated by dust. Mine is rather more mundane than hers, though, consisting as it does largely of plaster. The decorators have gone, and they’ve done a pretty good job (pics to follow when the place is back to normal), but it looks like nothing so much as a well-decorated plaster factory in which there’s just been a rather nasty explosion. I shall be sleeping upstairs till the rest is done, since most of my stuff is in the bedroom, and I shall be starting to sleep there very very shortly, since I’m knacked.

When I get a chance I’ll tell you about parties, cake, visiting old friends, totem poles, decorating, visas, stupid bankers and yoga. Probably.

So today was my last Monday morning on the treadmill, the last time I’ll have to buy a season ticket to Glasgow, the start of the last week in this damnable job. Four more days to go and after four years it’ll all be over. People asked me today whether I was excited. I suppose I ought to be, and in different circumstances, maybe I would be. At the moment, though, I’m simply too tired and too low to feel anything very much. My one concession to it being my final week was to let myself off lunch-making duties. Woo-hoo. Way to let go, G.

On the way home from work I stopped in at the gym for a quick, guilt-induced run, and then took the chance to cancel my membership. Since I’ll be away for a little while in India, and since I’ll be unemployed when I get back, I’ll have to economise (the Sky Sports subscription is next). I’d been looking forward to cancelling the gym membership for some time, as I don’t very much enjoy the place – in fact the only thing I like about it now is Sunday’s yoga class, which I shall miss, but that will have to be pursued elsewhere. Yet when it came to it, I didn’t feel anything at all about it. It was just like returning an ill-fitting coat. They were very nice about it, so was I, and that was that. The pleasure I’d expected simply wasn’t there.

I could tell you how I am feeling about now, but I imagine you’re already thinking I’m feeling unnecessarily sorry for myself, so I shan’t bother. Yet all I seem to be doing lately is letting things out of my life. I’ve yet to find much worthwhile to take their places. Until then, I suspect, I’ll keep noticing the holes. Careful what you wish for, kids.

On the plus side, I have got a few of my best friends coming at the weekend for what will be, I think, quite a cosy party. It will be a gathering of quality rather than quantity. Also, and quite by chance, I’ve arranged a few days in the Lakes with my friend Claire, our paths having unknowingly been fated to cross there on Saturday week. It was somewhere I’d hoped to see for the first time this year, in slightly different circumstances admittedly, so it’s a nice unexpected treat. Even if it will probably be a bit damp.

After that, Christmas. After that, India. After that – I honestly couldn’t tell you. I thought I’d know by now, but I don’t. Maybe when I’ve had some sleep.

Last Thursday (12 Nov) I dashed back from work, did a quick turnaround at home and was out of the door again in fifteen minutes. Having taken a glance at the traffic on the walk back to the flat, I knew it was going to be as quick to walk across town as to get a bus, even to Lothian Road. I was to meet the Mathesons in All Bar One on Festival Square, just across the road from the (relatively) newly restored HMV Picture House, Edinburgh’s newest major music venue. Donald and Adele had left around 6, and I’d got there around 6:45 as arranged, after a brisk stroll. A few traffic-watch texts later, at 7:30 they walked into the bar looking ever so slightly hacked off. An hour-and-a-half from Bathgate – who can blame them? Unable to even raise cheer levels with a drink since she was driving, Adele especially was in need of entertainment. Truth to tell, we all were.

So after a swift one we headed over the road. The inside of the Picture House has been really well done. They’ve even retained the period squeak of the wooden doors, and added an almost unheard-of level of civility to the door staff. Presumably they’ll learn, in time. It’s well laid-out inside, but presumably tickets remained, as there was plenty of space – not the sardine-tin packed-ness I’d heard tell of from the Seasick Steve gig the other week. Despite not being sold out, though, it was a good sized crowd.

Support was from 6 Day Riot, and we caught about half their set. I know nothing about them, but they seemed pretty good and went over well. We were expecting much from Mr Lakeman, having seen him tear up the stage at Cropredy on the Friday night, when he really was on fire – an evening that will live long in the memory. He did not disappoint. Even though I thought the crowd were a little restrained at times, this stuff is big, beaty and bouncy, and it’s almost impossible not to be uplifted by it if you have music in your soul. The songs are top notch, the playing joyful and enthusiastic and the man himself both unprepossessing and infectious. I still don’t understand how anyone sings and plays fiddle at the same time, but I’m glad someone else has figured it out. One of my other favourite things about him is the extensive rack of tenor guitars he has lined up at the back of the stage, which he changes between songs on a frequent basis – very Rock ‘n Roll. I don’t know how many tunings it’s possible put on a tenor guitar, but Seth must employ a fair few of them.

As for the songs, inevitably the ones I’m most familiar with are those from Freedom Fields, with Lady of the Sea, Setting of the Sun, The White Hare, King & Country, 1643 and Take No Rogues making an appearance amongst others. Spirits lifted visibly as the evening wore on, and it can’t just have been the beer as Adele’s mood was similarly raised from a pretty low start. This guy just brings a grin to my face which is no mean feat just now. Thank goodness for good music – it can be a real soul saver, as Tim Burgess once had it. Herewith the obligatory crappy phone pic:

It was over all too soon. I must go and buy more of his records, and will take any and every chance to see the man live, that’s for sure. A real winter warmer.

The other weekend, as those of you paying attention will remember, I went to Ireland for a bit of a break down in Kildare with my friends Jan and Dave. They were heading back from a wedding further up north and we arranged to meet at Dublin Airport. Having left it till the last minute there were very few flights to be had and those that remained were fairly expensive. The solution, it turned out, was a very early morning train journey from Edinburgh to Manchester Airport and one of the last two seats on an Aer Lingus flight from there. £80 all in.

I never did find out what made Dublin such a popular destination on that particular weekend, but evidence of some of the standard reasons was to be found in abundance at the gate: two “teams” of women, one that looked as though they ought to be old enough to know better and probably didn’t, and one who looked to young to know better and who plainly had no intention of finding out, not on this trip thank you very much. The one thing they had in common was their apparent chosen sport – Having a Good Time, and fair enough, so long as I know where they’re going (Temple Bar, odds-on) and can go somewhere else. One team had an official strip commemorating in emerald sequins a birthday (50) on the back, with their names, so handy for the Garda later on, on the front. The other had no strip (well, not yet…) but a clear captain, who was wearing a bridal tiara and a look of intent. Lucky lucky boy…

Anyway, the trip was, as Our Lord John Cleese once so wonderfully observed, relatively crash-free, not to mention short. 35 minutes after leaving Manchester I was in Ireland and ten minutes after that I had a pocket full of Euros and a pint full of Guinness. Not the best, but certainly the most expensive, of the weekend. But t’is an airport, and I had a wait. What to do? Anyway, the bar was right next to the ATM and I had to make sure the money worked didn’t I?

Ireland. Tropical Paradise. Almost every time I’ve been there I’ve come home with a tan, or at least partially burnt. One has come to expect a certain climate, and it was only late October after all. And so, as I awaited the arrival of the Strachans, I watched from the snug confines of the, erm, snug, as what looked suspiciously like rain lashed down upon those poor, unfortunate Guinnless souls outside, while I turned my attention to finishing off A Suitable Boy. The book, you understand…
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So I’ve been back at work for five weeks, half way through the last gasp, and already it’s getting me down. I always knew, deep down, that this was the wrong job in the wrong place. At the time I suppose I felt I had no choice, but at that point I still hadn’t taken the blinkers off. Someone was trying to tell me something back then, and I wasn’t listening (again). It’ll be interesting to see how things are when it’s over, because at the moment just being here, both physically, mentally and in every other way I can think of, is making me itch. And I still don’t know what the alternative is. It got to the point a few days ago where I felt like I had to get away again, however briefly, just to keep me going.

In the end Jan and Dave came to the rescue, once again, for the umpteenth time. They’re off to a wedding in Ireland midweek, and then going down to see Jan’s (very excellent) parents for a couple of days. Only now they’re picking me up from Dublin airport on their way down, and I get a weekend with them all. There will be much merriment, possibly the odd (possibly very odd…) game of Quiddler and in general what I believe is referred to locally thereabouts as “the craic”. Which is exactly what I need about now. Into the bargain, as a special bonus, we get to see Jan’s dad play live on the Saturday night. I’ve never seen him play before and it’ll be a rare treat, so I’m looking forward to that as much as anything.

It’s a stupid-o’clock early start on Friday (although actually only a fraction stupider than a normal day…), since the only financially viable way to get out there was the train to Manchester Airport then a flight to Dublin (one of the last two seats available…what is going on in Dublin next weekend?), but I don’t care. I needed something, and this feels like it. Thanks guys.

I only really knew Richard Hawley’s name vaguely from the last incarnation of Sheffield’s best-known musical heroes, Pulp. A few weeks ago I read an interview with him in the Saturday Grauniad and he sounded interesting. Then I saw an ad for his Queen’s Hall gig in my regular ticketweb email, so I thought “why not?”, it would at least give me something to do, and hey, it’s live music right? Try anything once. I went and bought his latest album Truelove’s Gutter, which proved to be much more laid back fare than I normally listen to – almost crooner-style in some places, though crucially not in your sickly-sweet Harry Connick Jr stylee. This had something grittier about it. Still I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Early signs were promising: the merchandise table featured bottles of his own-brand relish, which looked as much as anything like Worcester Sauce and had a cool old-school label. Excellent with vegetables, apparently.

Anyway, having no-one in particular there to talk to, and having exhausted my charm upon the bar staff (which, you’ll be amazed to learn, didn’t take too long…), I nipped in to see the support, Smoke Fairies. I’d heard them described by a friend of a friend who saw them in the Weeg as “wrist-slitting”, which I took to mean either awful or depressing. In fact they were neither, although their music could certainly be described as downbeat, I however found it atmospheric and vaguely haunting. There were folk overtones and lots of lovely slide guitar, the sound dominated by this and some fantastic harmonies from the two female singer/guitarists. Folk-Trance, anyone? I could imagine listening to this the morning after a long party. The lead guitarist and main proponent of the bottleneck was strikingly, almost painfully thin. She was playing what I think was a hollow-bodied Les Paul, which is probably just as well, as the 9lb-plus weight of the solid would surely have snapped her in twain.

I got the impression that they hadn’t been performing live for an awful long time, not from their playing which was excellent, both confident, laid-back and restrained, but from the little between-song banter in which they indulged. It just seemed a little nervy. They certainly betrayed their not-from-round-these-parts-ness with a story about trying haggis for the first time which fell a bit flat, but was actually the funnier for it. The voices were straight out of Wimbledon High School though, bless ‘em. I spoke to them afterwards at the merchandise stall and they were lovely. I even bought a boxed set of their singles/EP which is always a good sign for a first listen live, and it’s actually pretty good stuff too. Worth a look – I think they play more in and around London.

Appropriately this was a seated gig – I don’t think either act would lend themselves to a standing arena – this was a pretty laid-back evening all round. There was an air of anticipation prior to Richard Hawley’s appearance and he was, sure enough, warmly welcomed. Now you’ll have to forgive me, unfamiliar as I am with his stuff, for not really recalling the set list that well. However the man has some great songs and they really come to life, well, live. They seem to expand into something bigger – maybe it’s just giving them the air of a venue like this one, maybe it’s the chance for his frankly amazing band to flex their muscles a bit, but whatever, this was fine entertainment.

The contrast between the sound, which does sort of come across as a mixture of the crooner style and a grittier voice of something more country-like. Very very smooth though. Here, too, was the experience of a player who’d been round the block a few times. His chat was both easily amiable, funny and laconic. A small amount of Glasgow/Edinburgh rivalry was stoked, his conclusion being, I think, that Edinburgh were “nicer” but also possibly “soft as shit”:

He was also a pro – when the electrics went haywire (which may also have accounted for the rogue fire alarm earlier in the evening, mercifully before the show started) and they had to go off for ten minutes, it was merely taken as an opportunity to get to the bar again quickly. The propensity so to do, he observed when they returned, seemed to be a function of age – the younger more likely to have dashed to acquire another pint, the older more likely to dash to the loo to dispose of the last one.

By the end he owned the place and the crowd cheered loud and long – an encore was absolutely and righteously demanded. Sure enough they played a few more and by the end of that I witnessed the first successful spontaneous standing ovation I’d seen for a long long time. Well deserved it was, too. I’m still not sure it’s going to be my new favourite record, but I’ll certainly hear it with different ears (ok, ear…) next time, and if you get the chance to see him, take it. I think he’d be wonderful somewhere like the Union Chapel, say. Top gig all round.